Happy so far

My life story isn’t the kind of story Wright Thompson would write about.

I’m the product of a happy marriage, with a support system of family and friends that I wouldn’t possibly trade for anything. My sister is studying abroad in Paris right now, and I couldn’t be more jealous. I’ve been out of the country for all of about four days of my life, and that was Canada, so I’m not sure it really counts.

My Dad owns his own small business near our home in suburban Chicago. He inherited the business from his Dad, and it took me a while to get over the fact that I’ll probably be the break in the chain of running that business. My Mom is a preschool teacher and a former nurse. She gave up nursing and moved into teaching in order to help raise my sister and I. She gave up her dream for us, and I don’t think that kind of favor can ever be repaid.

I think I can point to three separate events in my life that got me into writing, and more specifically into sports writing.

1) When I was 3 years old, I started reading the sports page of the Chicago Tribune on our living room floor every morning while I ate Pop-Tarts. Granted, I didn’t really read the words, but my preschool teachers knew exactly how many rebounds Scottie Pippen was averaging and what Mark Grace’s batting average was. I had the fortune of running into one of my preschool teachers a few years ago, and somehow she still remembered that. That meant a lot to me.

2) When I was in Kindergarten, I co-authored a book called “The Fish Buyers.” Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a page-turner. I liked football, my friend Sara liked marine animals, we compromised and the main character of the book was Dan Marino the Football Fish. Corny? Of course. But it’s one of the few events I actually remember from Jackson Elementary School so it had to have some sort of a major effect on me.

3) Finally, what actually got me into writing? Not Horatio Alger. Not Woodward and Bernstein. Not even Kornheiser and Wilbon.

An episode of Def Poetry Jam.

I don’t even remember the poet’s name. I remember that we (cough) somehow (cough) got HBO for free for a few months. I was just flipping around one night and stumbled onto this show. The poem was called “I want to hear a poem.” There was a stanza in the poem that started like this:

“I want to hear a poem where ideas kiss similes so deeply that metaphors get jealous…” the poet said.

By the end of it, I wanted to write for a living.

“Where the subject matters so much that adjectives start holding pro-noun rallies at City Hall.”

If that doesn’t move you, check your pulse.

Other than the information you’ve just read, I have relatively few insecurities or myths about myself. I’m confident in my abilities. I’m happy with who I am. I don’t have a fear of failure, but I do fear that a great amount of success would change me. I can get nervous around a person I don’t know well, but even that has really started to fade in the last couple of years. I used to be introverted, now not so much. I’m more excited than anything else about graduating in May and jumping feet first into the real world.